


the knife to my throat (your fingers are soft)

by grandstander



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/pseuds/grandstander
Summary: Once upon a time, that blade you're holding near my throat would have been used to kill me. Strange, what a little time can change.





	the knife to my throat (your fingers are soft)

**Author's Note:**

> completely self indulgent, lol 
> 
> i got the idea of garen helping darius shave, and garen seems like the type to keep himself really neat and clean, too. anyway, this is pretty vague in terms of timeline, and some kind of au obviously. an au where noxus and demacia finally come to a peace treaty? who knows. mostly i just wanted to write them doing something simple but loving, in their own language. 
> 
> i don't usually proof read my first posting so be warned, lol

To think he would let a Demacian so near him, and so near with a fine blade. It was a strange thought that occurred to him, a piece of himself that was a little younger and bitter, whose heart still wore red with hatred. And yet, Garen’s fingers moved with a gentle touch, and although that was not so alarming, Darius mused about how he had come to such a place in time. 

He adored those hands; how soft the very center felt against his rough fingertips, how rough with callouses the bottom of his palm was. Darius had held that hand to his lips, had kissed his open palm as if his very life laid within the center of it; a blessing, a prayer, a cry. How strong those hands were, that carried the weak and cradled life and would strike it down in the name of his justice (  _ a useless moral code _ , he still told Garen; Garen still followed it, and Darius loved him at least for the passion in his heart ). 

It’d started with a groan, of course; complaints left Darius’ lips more often than he’d ever admit. His hand roamed over his chin, the growing dark hair beginning to make his skin itch, and rough under his touch. 

“Damn, I need t’ shave again…” he said, aimlessly speaking to himself. It was an afterthought, really; an observation that he would tend to at a later point in time, but Garen was indeed a man of action. Darius wasn’t a lazy man by any means, but he prioritized differently, than Garen. The Demacian was rather strict with himself, favoring routine and a neatly kept appearance.

“I can take care of it for you,” the other man had said, hastily adding, “If you wish.” The offer left his lips before Garen had time to consider or debate it with himself, a testament to the growing casualness between the two of them, which was also an odd realization that made both their spines feel stiff with past pride and ambition. Darius pauses to stare at him in consideration, though his expression retains that stern passiveness. Garen still can’t entirely read the man after all this time. 

“I keep myself rather clean shaven,” Garen further explained. The older man’s gaze falls to the other’s chin upon hearing the clarification, as if observing him anew— and true to his words Darius has never seen Garen as anything but clean and pristine. The only exception was the few moments he spent between waking and his hygiene routine, and even that was not very long. The man seemed to have an impeccable personal upkeep. 

Garen expected more resistance, a dismissal of some kind, but instead he was met with, “You cut me in any way and I’ll give you several to match.” 

It wasn’t the kindest of acceptances he had received, but it served well enough; it was not as if Garen could truly blame him for the harsh lilt in his words, either. What was a soldier to do with all his leftover aggression when war began to dwindle? Garen didn’t bother giving any retorts, it would be a waste anyhow, and he’d rather not let the answer expire. “Come with me, then.” 

The razor and tin of soft cream Garen held were notably Demacian made; Darius could tell by the clean white handle of the razor, simple decorative carvings at its base, and the small jar seemed to match its artistic appearance. That was something he’d likely never grow used to; the formality and ceremony that seemed to encircle everything within their culture. He wondered vaguely if it was because Garen was nobility that such ceremony seemed to seep into his daily habits. That was the duality of his loyalty, Darius realized, Garen did not take much time to question it; a shame, he thought, if only he could be freer (habits were hard to break, though). 

As Darius makes no further movements than to follow him, Garen assumes his actions, leaving the elegantly made razor and keeping the tin in his hands. He hesitated only momentarily, a fading memory of muscle that wanted to move against his intention. 

It’s always his gentleness that surprises Darius, even in small acts, as if all of life is precious to those war laden hands. Years ago, he had not known what to do when receiving such gentleness; rage at the forefront of his conscious was all that he had, it was the armor of his core. He doesn’t move away from Garen’s hand as often these days. 

The steady rhythm of his fingers against his skin is soothing, moving in circles starting at the curve of his cheeks. His thumb moves slower over his chin, and with a new swab of cream on his fingers he moves to the other cheek. It’s around his lips that Garen’s touch is softest and almost shy, of all things ( he is more reserved than one would think ). As his fingers pull away, Darius considers kissing them, a falter of the heart in the moment. Like the lump rising in his throat, Darius swallows the impulse. His finger returns to tap the bottom of Darius’ chin, a silent request for him to tilt his chin upwards; he obliges, of course, and afterwards Garen finally cleans his hand and takes the razor. 

The razor against the edge of his throat reminds him of old times; it seems his thoughts are wondering a lot this morning. Years ago, the same small blade to his throat could have been driven just right into his skin, could have drug the life away from him;  _ strange _ , what trust and a little time can do. 

His strokes were smooth and gentle, slow enough to tend to the skin with care but quick enough not to linger too long. It’s efficient, but not lacking in tenderness. As Garen moves from the bottom of his chin to wash the gathered residue, Darius returns to his looking at him properly, silently watching how careful and thoroughly he cleans the item. It’s their differences and similarities, always a sense of duality and overlapping that he returned to in silent contemplation. Darius had never considered an act such as shaving to be anything more than a bother and time consuming, but Garen still treated it with care and practiced diligence. His passion and dedication, that’s what always returned to, that’s what always drew him to the Demacian. 

Garen’s finger curls underneath his chin as he begins to draw the razor over his cheeks with slower, steady motions. “Would you mind helping me trim my hair?” he suddenly asks, catching Darius off guard by the question. As he waits for Garen to wash the razor clean before moving to speak, his eyes drift to the neat hairline that he keeps, and does notice the hair beginning to curl closer to his eyes. 

“And who’s to say I’m any good at it?” Darius asks, abrasive as always in his speech. Garen doesn’t answer him at first, his expression still calm while his eyes followed the work of his hands. 

“I just thought to ask,” he says finally as his finger gently pushes against his bare chin, urging the older man to turn his head. 

Darius does as he’s silently asked, though he doesn’t say much more as the thin blade graces over his other cheek. He wondered if somehow Garen had learned he had some experience in the craft ( he was no professional, of course ). It’s not as if his brother could keep his hairstyle up entirely on his own, though Darius had done little more than trimming the back at Draven’s request. It seemed unlikely, however; even during peace times Garen tolerated the younger brother at best ( never for long, though— Garen’s patience could only stretch so far ). 

Over his lips, his strokes are smaller and almost shy again, taking care not to touch him more than necessary. He was always so chaste, Darius had noticed, and he was certain it was because the man could not shake the trained formality he conducted himself with ( and he was  _ new _ to this, still; lovers were not a priority for a Captain of the Vanguard ). Despite that, it always drew something to the surface within Darius; a want, a curiosity, he wasn’t sure himself. 

As Garen’s hand draws away for the last time, Darius follows his earlier whim, chasing it and pulling the inside of his palm to his lips. Momentarily, Garen’s shoulders stiffen in surprise, but as he has learned to do, he relaxes into the touch. 

“You could have waited for me to put down what I’m holding,” he says, though his words lack malice. Darius doesn’t listen, nor does he let go of the other man’s hand for a moment longer, instead pressing further into it. His fingers brush the newly shaven skin, softened from the cream that had been used. Garen falls away from that composure he had bound himself to all these years, his free hand moving to brush along the cheek that was facing him. 

“What is it about you that forces the romantic out of me, huh?” Darius asks, a bemused, teasing lilt to his voice as he turns steadily away from the hand he held, his hold just as slowly releasing it. Garen doesn’t answer, his eyes only blink and he turns away, finally setting down the item he held (though his cheeks held a dusting of color). 

To think of Darius, the Hand of Noxus, as  _ romantic _ was as unusual as it sounded. But that was the thing, there was this freedom, this privy opportunity when no eyes were present but their own. But there was also lingering memories, too. Garen could still vividly recall the weight of an axe crushing against the side of his armor, and Darius could still feel the weight of a sword slicing into his shoulder. Gentle and romantic were not words befitting to them in their normal rights, but what was said between them could be kept only between them, too. There was less of a need to be paragons of their nations, less of a performance. 

“Find somewhere to sit down so I can cut your hair.” Garen turns to Darius momentarily, his hands now at his side as he was intending to go back to the routine he kept, but again he was drawn away from it. He stares for just a second, silently, but does pull out a sturdy stool to sit on. Noxian made; Darius insisted on it, said that the Demacian furniture looked too ornate, too delicate for a man such as himself. Garen had seen little reason to argue over something so insignificant, and the Noxian pieces scattered in his quarters were sturdy enough to remain. 

His hands were warm— that was the first thing Garen noticed. The second was that despite his hands being large and worn with callouses, they were apt at trimming his hair. He wanted to ask, but he’s sure moving without warning would likely earn him some kind of repercussion. He also did not notice when Darius had taken the scissors, but he found himself worrying less than he would have years before. 

A ghost of his past could feel the scissors being driven into his chest. Right now all he could feel was the trailing touch of warm fingers at the nape of his neck. 

It’s peaceful, in a strange way; the world is silent, as if forgetting them and leaving them to their aging freedom. Only the sound of the scissors punctuated the air between them, at least until Darius told him to face him. 

He turned a moment later, his eyes turning up to meet with the Noxian’s own. “Close your eyes,” was his added words, and after he had done so, he felt a rough hand resting over his eyes, pushing under the hair that had begun to drape over his forehead. It took only a few moments, his eyes reflexively shifting under the hand at the sound of each clip from the scissors. Any strand of hair was brushed from his face, more carelessly than the movements over his eyes weres moment before. 

And Darius was greeted by those bright, gleaming blue eyes. The color blue still inspired an old bitterness that would like only die when he did, but the color in those eyes always reminded him of the heavens too all the same. Blue as the seas, storm clouds could grow in them and the entire world could rage within those eyes. As they watched him tirelessly, unwavering, he was reminded that he had grown soft when seeing that blue. 

One of his hands lingered, brushing through the shortened bangs and flattening them against Garen’s forehead; finally, when a grunt came from the older man, Garen took it to mean he was satisfied with his work. 

As he stood, Garen hesitated momentarily, heart swelling in his chest, and presses a chaste kiss to the other man’s cheek. “Thank you,” he adds, though as he returns to himself, he falls back into that impeccable composure he was trained to present. 

“Yeah,” was the only answer Darius gave him, voice as gruff as the grunt that had left him earlier. He’d done enough dwelling on memories and circumstances already this morning (history would tell of it enough as it is, this room was separate of it, their homes were slowly fading from the past and moving into the present). He tries not to let it continue much more than he can bare, and he lets himself cave around Garen, chin resting on his shoulder while his arms wrap around the other man’s stomach.


End file.
